


It's New Year's Eve Cas, Let's Get Drunk

by get_out_of_my_cas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas likes to tease, First Kiss, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years Eve lets party, anyways dean is on some new shit, being bold, cue pining, cue yearning, dean and cas go on a hunt, finally someone makes a move, how do you spell alchohol, like okay kiss you idiots, pool and bar fights and mexican food, pov dean a little bit, resolutions and revelations, uh oh if it isnt the consequences of alocohol and pent up sexual frustration, whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29627529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/get_out_of_my_cas/pseuds/get_out_of_my_cas
Summary: “Happy New Year’s Eve,” the motel clerk says as Dean pushes out the door to leave. It shuts behind him before he can respond. He catches up to Cas in the parking lot.“Hey did you know it was New Year’s Eve?” Dean says, reaching out for his bag.“Hmm, I believe I did, yes” he says, eyes squinting, mouth crooking up into a grin. “Did you forget?”----------Dean and Cas go on a hunt together. Apparently it's New Year's Eve. Cue pining, cue yearning, cue these idiots being idiots until someone Finally makes a first move.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	It's New Year's Eve Cas, Let's Get Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> whats up, say hi, enable me to write more fic in quarantine bc ive got nothing else to do :)
> 
> (warning: f-slur/homophobic townies)(they are dealt with, trust)

“Happy New Year’s Eve,” the motel clerk says as Dean pushes out the door to leave. Dean pauses, faintly repeating it back as the door shuts behind him. _Damn, already?_ He catches up to Cas in the parking lot as he’s shutting the trunk, their bags in hand. 

“Hey did you know it was New Year’s Eve?” Dean says, reaching out for his bag from Cas hand. Cas passes it over. 

“Hmm, I believe I did, yes” he says, eyes squinting, mouth crooking up into a grin. “Did you forget?” 

“I guess I just lost track of time,” Dean says, crossing the lot towards their room’s door. New Year’s Eve must explain the motel’s business; they only had a single with a queen. 

Their steps were heavy to the door, sand scattering out of laces across the pavement. Dean could feel a sunburn creeping across his neck from their afternoon spent out in the desert boonies. Normally they didn’t take chupacabra cases; they were light work for local hunters. But this one was particularly nasty. It’d caught a drunk girl wandering off from a campfire. Her friends found her before she bled out, luckily, but they rarely attack humans. Alas, enter Dean and Cas. They’d found its den, shanked the damn thing, and still had time for dinner.

Dean’s eyes burned from the residual desert heat. He felt dirty. He looked it too. Sand was gritting across his skin in places it had _no right gritting._ Cas looked wiped too, slumping against the doorway as Dean slid in the key. They fall inside and into the A/C, Dean moaning as he collapses on the bed. Cas sits down in the chair, leaning back, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

  
“I hate the desert,” Cas says, his voice gravelled and dry. Dean looks over, sees the sunburn beginning to settle across Cas’ cheekbones. He just hmm’s, too tired to speak. Cas eventually rises for the shower. Dean drifts off. 

Cas’ shakes him awake now, in jeans and nothing else. Dean’s breath hitches. Cas is close, so close that Dean can see the steam wisping off his bronzed skin, see it lick upwards. Dean’s eyes follow their spires, up past Cas’ navel, past the drop slipping off his chest, past the one caught in the hollow of his throat and up to Cas’ eyes. A flash of red creeps across Cas’ cheek and he turns sheepishly, quickly slipping on his shirt. Dean kinda coughs but doesn’t really move, just watches the muscles of Cas’ back ripple under his skin. Dean rolls over towards the shower. 

He’s taking forever, he knows. The water’s already gone cold. In the frigid stream, he crosses his arm across his face so he can bite into the skin. He doesn’t think about Cas. Well, he tries not to think about Cas. Tries not to think about his taut skin, how the water kissed his chest, the little tufts of hair peeking out above his jeans. He bites down harder now, suppressing the whimper that’s rising through him. The orgasm rocks through him hard, leaving him weak in its wake. He has to lean against the shower wall, take a few breaths. He turns the shower off. 

Cas is watching a police rerun Dean’s sure he’s already seen when he steps out. He’s changed now, out of his dirty clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt. It’s bizarre seeing Cas casual sometimes. Dean knows he can’t wear the trench coat everywhere, especially trudging through the desert, but seeing Cas in jeans and tee just seems, _weird_? 

His eyes flicker to the TV. Now he’s _sure_ they’ve seen it before. The memory flashes, that night Dean fell asleep on Cas’ shoulder. He woke up sometime later in the early a.m., eyes dry and scratchy, but he was tucked under the covers. Cas was sitting at the motel table reading something on a laptop, his brow furrowed. Dean remembers his breathing hitching, his effort to even it, his heart hammering. He tried not to move or catch Cas’ attention. _Had Cas put him to bed?_ He must have. An alarm sounded somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind but he tried to ignore it. Tried to relax. _Would he have done that for Sam?_ Dean knew the answer before he even thought of the question. No, Cas wouldn’t have, because Sam wouldn’t have fallen asleep on Cas in the first place. But maybe, Cas wouldn’t have sat so close to Sam that he could have. Cas _had_ sat right next to him; he remembers the brush of Cas’ thigh against his own. Remembers when Cas hadn’t retreated from the touch, just let the electricity dance between their skin. That is, _if_ Cas felt the hum of Dean’s skin. But Cas _had_ put Dean to bed, and he did it without thinking. He did it without waking Dean either. He must have gone slow, carefully, tried to move Dean softly. A warmth had spread through Dean’s chest. He closed his eyes again. Soon, he didn’t have any trouble pretending to sleep; he was out in minutes. Cas had faintly smiled at the laptop but Dean hadn’t seen, his eyes were already closed. 

“So we going out tonight or what?” Dean asks, running a hand through his damp hair. Now it’s his turn to feel exposed, the towel slung low across his hips. He tries to act casual, tries not to shy away when Cas turns to look at him, catalogs when Cas’ gaze lingers just a second longer, just a flash downwards. 

“Into town?” Cas says, frowning, remote in hand. 

“Yea. It’s New Year’s Eve, let’s go out. Come on, it beats sitting here all night,” Dean says, grabbing a change of clothes. Dean thinks Cas might put up a fight, moan about being tired—Dean is beat too—but he only shrugs. 

“Okay,” he says, continually flipping through the channels. Dean smiles and ducks into the bathroom to change. 

\-------

The drive into town is only 15 minutes long but the minutes are crawling on. Cas isn’t saying much. Dean knows he’s giving him space and he silently takes it, thanking Cas in everything but words. They hadn’t talked about it yet; he doesn’t know if they will. It’s not that Dean is _embarrassed_ , or anything like that. He’s hugged Cas before, many times. But this had been...different? It was the second chupacabra in the den that afternoon—the one they hadn’t seen coming— that had thrown Cas against the wall and knocked him out. The fear had pulsed through Dean, his hand moving instinctively. His blade crunched through bone as he stabbed it through the crown of its head. The paw it had raised in the air, the paw that was supposed to rip through Cas’ chest fell. The body hadn’t even hit the ground before Dean kicked it out of the way, falling to his knees to shake Cas’ awake. _Come on Cas wake up, hey Cas, Cas wake up, come, god CAS_ and when Cas remained completely lax, head rolling, Dean had taken him up in his arms and hugged him, gripped him so tight, his breaths coming out ragged, his eyes misting over. Cas had slowly come to, stirring in Dean’s arms and Dean sighed out in relief, but didn’t let go for a moment longer, just squeezed his eyes shut and Cas tighter. He thought he felt Cas’ hands softly tighten around him but soon panic turned to worry and he pulled back. He searched Cas eye’s—blue as a stove top flame— for hurt or blood or a sign that Cas was okay. 

“Dean,” he murmured, low. 

“What? Are you okay? What hurts?” Dean said, running his hand over Cas’ arms, touching his shirt, pulling it back expecting to see red. 

“....Personal space,” Cas had said, his mouth teasing up into a grin. Dean blurted out a laugh, his head falling forward to rest on Cas’ shoulder. 

He laughed into Cas’ shoulder, just barely. “Sorry,” he said, pulling off him and standing. Cas’ hand lingered down Dean’s arms before sliding into his hand as Dean pulled him up. They were standing now, almost flesh, but neither moved. Dean swallowed, Cas’ eyes flicked to his lips. But then Dean’s eyes widened, noticing a drop of blood leaking down from Cas’ hairline. 

“Hey, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said. Cas nodded. The stillness of the air gave way to movement, the heat returning to the room, and the moment had passed—whatever it was. Dean’s hand still rested on Cas’ shoulder as he guided him out. 

Though they weren’t really talking right now, in the Impala, it wasn’t awkward. Dean never felt awkward around Cas. _Flustered_? Yes. But never awkward. Cas knew Dean inside out and he never let Dean forget it for a second. _“Dean, I rebuilt your soul from a million fractured pieces scattered across Hell’s floor”_ — _”yes, Cas, I get it, okay thank you”_ —but Cas was right. Cas did know him. He could recognize what Dean said when he couldn’t speak. He knew his every tell—for better or worse. When he was lying. When he was asking for something but too scared to vocalize it. When he was telling the truth but pretending to be lying, to save face. From what, Cas couldn’t always understand. But right now, he understood that Dean would say something, joke about the moment, deflect when he was ready. And Cas would laugh, because the joke would probably be funny anyways. Cas knew when to push and when to wait, when to let Dean navigate to him, to reach out to him, to trust Dean to trust himself to do it. When they were together, there were many things unsaid, of course, but nothing gone unnoticed. Each lingering touch, each just-because coffee, each here, I’ll drive, you sleep—each one emboldening the next, cementing the last in a language they shared but did not speak aloud.

“You’re pretty quiet there, Cas, you okay?” Dean says, almost on cue. Cas smiles to himself faintly. He knows Dean is teasing himself by teasing Cas, poking at what’s hanging in the air between them without bothering to cut it down.

“I’m good,” Cas says. “Are you good?” He looks over, eyebrow cocking slightly. Dean quickly turns his head, staring to the road. His hands’ grip on the wheel just slightly relaxes.

“Yea, I’m good,” Dean says, the tension falling out of his shoulders. Cas smiles himself now. Leans back a little. It’s dark but Cas can see a soft smile flash quick across Dean’s face.

“Good,” Cas says, still staring. Dean looks over and smiles fully now, the hint of a blush splattering across his cheeks. 

“Good,” Dean says. He bends his arms to rest between them on the top of the seat. His elbow brushes Cas’ shoulder, just barely. 

“Good,” Cas says, teasing grin on blast and he has to duck from Dean’s fist as he tries to lightly punch Cas’ shoulder. Dean lets out an exasperated sigh, another _why do I put up with you_. But he’s still smiling. 

Dean pulls into a restaurant that looks decent enough but not too nice. Dean wishes they could afford better but this stolen card is at the end of its road. He wishes Cas and him could have a nice meal for once. Eat something real. He imagines Cas across from him, reading over the menu. Maybe someplace where they put a candle on the table. 

It rails through him like a train. _A_ _date_ , is what he thinks. He’s imaging a date. _Fuck_. Suddenly, just being here with Cas, who’s wearing one of Dean’s shirts because his own was torn by the cabra, feels like a dagger piercing through his sternum. _Calm down._ What began as a shock, however, starts to ebb to warmth, spreads through his chest, and starts to climb up his neck. It’s definitely some stupid, warm fuzzy feeling when he notices Cas frowning upwards at the restaurant’s sign. Dean follows his gaze and about doubles over when he sees the sign. _El Chupacabra._ He’s laughing so hard he has to lean over, his hand against the Impala’s roof to get air into his lungs. Cas starts laughing too, shaking his head. 

“Come on,” Dean says, regaining his composure. “Round two. Rematch.” Cas chuckles and follows him in. 

Inside it’s your typical Southwestern fare; turquoise motifs, poorly painted navajo designs, chips at the table. Dean goes to get them a table. There’s a young brunette as a hostess tonight, but the restaurant’s not too full. She’s flirting with Dean until Cas comes up behind him, leans in very close, whispers something dry in Dean’s ear. Dean pushes him off, laughing, apologizing to her. Her eyes widen a hair. She kinda flusters, says a quiet "if you’ll follow me" and disappears. They follow her and Dean sorts laughs to himself—it’s not the first time they’ve been treated as an item—but when Cas follows closely in tow, hand bumping into his, Dean’s mind circles back. _No, this is not a date._ Not a date. 

  
“Order whatever you like, Cas,” Dean says over his menu. “It’s on me tonight. We’re celebrating.” Cas furrows his brow, gives that Cas look, even tilts his head to the side. Sometimes Cas does it for Dean’s amusement; sometimes he is really that confused. 

“What for?” Cas asks, returning to his menu. 

“I don’t know, how about we start with you not dying, huh? Seems like a good reason to me?” Dean says. Cas’ eyes flick over the menu. 

“I thought you were going to say New Year’s Eve,” Cas asks. His grin peeks out from over the menu. Dean can feel the tips of his ears heat, strike like lit matches. 

“Yea well, that too,” Dean says, stammering. “Shut up,” he adds, just for good measure, but it’s an empty jibe. Cas just shakes his head. 

“Well Mr. New Year’s Eve, what are your resolutions then?” Dean asks, pulling down Cas’ menu with the tip of his finger. Cas reads the menu all the way down to the table, fascinated by the "nacho-quesso-rrito". 

“Hmm,” he says, leaning back now. “I’m not sure. I don’t have any, I guess.”

“ Cas, you have to have some! That’s like, rule number one.”

“Hmmm,” Cas says, eyes sweeping upwards. “Well, I’d think I’d like to be more compassionate. Be more open minded. Perhaps more patient.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, you’re supposed to say work out or eat healthy or something stupid.” Cas eyebrows knit together. “Besides, you’re already those things anyways and therefore, you’re cheating.”

Now Cas rolls his eyes, steels himself against a grin. Something had really gotten into Dean tonight. He was clearly feeling bold. Sometimes when Dean got drunk he let things slip, or teased a little harder, or let innuendos hang in the air. But tonight he was sober. He wonders if it would last. 

“Fine, what are yours then?” Cas asks. He smirks when Dean is silent, when he blanks. Of course, Dean didn’t have any resolutions himself. He’d been busy! He hadn’t time to think. They’d been on a hunt, give a guy a break for once. 

“Hmmm, I’d like to be a better cook. Keep the bunker cleaner. And maybe eat healthier, I don’t know.” Dean trails off at the end, returning to his menu. Cas expected the first two, even if Dean is already a great cook and keeps the bunker meticulously spotless. For leaving a coffee mug out here or there, Cas has become the resident slob—according to Dean. The last one surprises him, though. Dean’s poor diet had always been one of the founding pillars of _Dean Winchester Stubbornness, Inc._

Dean notices Cas’ surprise. He waves his hand. “I don’t know, I’m not twenty anymore.” He says, shrugging. “Even if I still look like it,” he adds, winking at Cas with a shit eating grin. Now Cas really rolls his eyes. He flags down a waitress. 

“I think we’re ready,” Cas says. He orders a fajita plate per Dean’s suggestion and Dean orders something called "flautas," giving the waitress a shrug. She brings Dean a beer too. 

Now they’re sitting, waiting. Dean takes a swig of his beer. Cas eats a tortilla chip. He’s learning to eat, slowly, learning to recognize flavors. Salt is easier, since it’s basically a mineral. The fajitas he eats are supposed to taste like cumin, as Dean tells him, but he doesn’t expect he’ll get much out of it. He usually just eats to make Dean feel comfortable. Dean hates eating alone. After Cas has pushed his food around, Dean will probably just finish off whatever’s left anyways. And Cas will let him, feigning fullness. 

They talk about a possible hunt in Cheyenne. They talk about Sam, about new parts Dean needs for Baby, about plans for winter in the bunker. About Cas’ garden and the greenhouse they were building. Cas had protested to Dean’s help at first since he didn’t want to bother Dean but Dean had insisted. He wouldn’t let Cas _not_ let him help and finally Cas caved and they were driving an hour each way to Home Depot on the weekends. Cas was helpless—he didn’t know the difference between a screwdriver and a saw—but Dean answered every question he had, even the stupid ones. Cas wondered where Dean had even learned all of this carpentry. He asked Sam but Sam had only looked confused— _"Dean? And carpentry? Cas, Dean’s never touched a hammer in his life."_ It dawned on Cas that Dean was actually way out of his element but was faking it, only pretending he knew what he was doing. He guessed Dean must have found help online or called Home Depot when Cas wasn’t paying attention. _"Hi, how do you build a greenhouse?_ " But every time they went Dean had a list, checked it off, and bought (mostly) the right things. They had started building it in a clearing behind the bunker, digging holes for cement foundations and lining up the standing posts. It was only halfway through, since they kept getting sidetracked with hunts, but Dean seemed determined to finish and Cas was grateful for the help. He promised Dean he would cook him a huge dinner of vegetable stew in the spring. Dean had smiled, said he would like that, clapped Cas on the back with a dirt-ridden glove and left a big hand print there. 

“Earth to Cas. You done?” Dean asks, looking at Cas’ plate. Cas realizes he’d drifted off a little. “Yes, sorry, go ahead.” Dean pulls the plate over and eats a little off it. 

“Alright, let’s bounce,” Dean says, shuffling out of the seat. He pays at the counter and they head out. Cas starts towards the car but Dean grabs him, dragging him across the street. “Dean,” Cas moans, “what now?” 

“Come on, Cas, it’s New Year’s Eve! That was just dinner,” Cas sighs but eventually gives in to Dean’s pull. Dean was really in a mood now—he was rarely this excited, especially after a long day in the grueling heat. He was usually dead in the motel, three beers in, face down in the bed, clothes still on. 

“Fine,” Cas says, letting Dean drag him along. “But you’re buying,” he adds, grinning. Dean scoffs and holds open the door. 

“Someone’s bossy tonight. It’s New Year’s Eve! Relax, dude!” Dean says. 

“So I’ve heard,” Cas says, laughing. He steps in. It was a typical dive bar, no rougher than places they’d been before. There were two underaged girls nervously standing around at the front, a couple of guys throwing darts, a rowdy group of bikers in the back. 

Dean orders them beers. Before Cas could sit down Dean grabs him again, directing him over to the back. He sighs. He knows where this was going. 

“Dean, I don’t want to play, please,” Cas says, a huff of annoyance. Dean swipes his hand at the air, rejecting Cas’ rejection. Dean wasn’t aversed to forcing Cas to play pool with him, much to Cas’ complaints. Sometimes as bait when hustling, to lure in some sucker from the bar to bet against Dean. But other times, Dean just wanted to play. Like tonight. 

“Stop whining. How are you going to get good if you don’t play? I’ll teach you, come on,” Dean says. His hand pushes at the small of Cas’ back and Cas caves in, stops dragging his feet. 

Dean loved playing pool with Cas. Was Cas terrible? Absolutely. He was awful. Almost unhelpable. _Almost_. But Dean was a great teacher—when he wasn’t busy watching. He watches Cas bite his tongue before each shot. Watches his hands rack the balls. He usually tries to not to peek when Cas bends over, leaning across the table, ass backing out but other times, Dean can’t resist. When he was being good he stood to the side, watching each of Cas’ biceps tense. Cas, on the other hand, was less cognizant of personal space, always standing just a hair too close. If it was anyone but Cas, Dean would’ve elbowed them off. But Cas was oblivious. And warm. And Cas.   
One night he was standing behind Dean as Dean leaned down to take a shot, his chest laying nearly flush with the table. He felt Cas hovering and when he looked back and saw Cas standing over him, saw his ass backed up to Cas’ crotch, saw Cas leaning with one hand on the table, Dean’s arms jerked through the shot. His arms had practically gone soft; all the blood had rushed south. Cas shot him a confused look—Dean almost never missed—but Dean was busy ignoring him as he chugged down his beer. 

Tonight, Dean tells himself to behave. He makes it through the break easy, giving Cas pointers from across the table. What he really wants to do is teach Cas right, teach him old fashioned. Get behind him, lean over him, take his hands in his own, and line up the shot. But he keeps his hands to himself. He fiddles with his beer. Picks at the label. Finishes it quickly. He orders another. 

The game is going well. Cas has gotten somewhat better, even if he pretends he hasn’t. He can sink a given shot. But he isn’t thinking ahead, isn’t picturing the end-placement of the cue. 

“Hmmm, think again,” Dean says, right as Cas is about to shoot. Cas looks up, catches Dean’s eyes, brows furrowed. 

“But I’ll make it,” Cas says, pulling off the table. 

“Yea, but then you’ll set me up to nail this in right here. And you’re two balls behind.” 

Cas surveys the table. Dean hopes he’ll see what he sees—sink the seven, put the ball in the corner _behind_ the eight, and trap Dean. Cas comes around to where Dean’s standing and Dean can see the moment it clicks. But when Cas leans over the table to take the shot, his shirt— _his_ shirt—inches up his back to flash a strip of skin. Dean swallows hard. He tries not to look down, tries to focus on Cas’ shot. The angle’s all wrong though; Cas will hit the eight instead. It happens subconsciously: Dean leaning over him, sliding his hand down Cas’ arm to rest lightly on his hand. He doesn't even realize he’s doing it until he’s there, until Cas is warm under his chest, until Dean can smell patchouli and pine, until Cas’ hair is tickling his cheek. He tries not to think about it, tries to keep enough distance between them so that Cas can’t feel his heart hitched beat echoing in his ribcage. 

“Lower. You’ll have to hit it from the outside.” He drags Cas’ hand over slightly, lowers his elbow an inch. Cas lets him guide him, doesn’t recoil from Dean’s touch but leans into it. “Now.”

Cas follows through and sinks the seven, sending the cue to tap lightly on the eighth. Dean lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was pulling and pulls himself off Cas. Cas is smiling, clearly happy with himself, maybe a little embarrassed to be proud. 

Dean claps him on the back, _there you go, tiger,_ when he hears the snicker. It’s followed by a jibe Dean doesn’t fully hear but instinctively recognizes. It slices a knife through his stomach, His shoulders tense but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of rousing a reaction. He just slowly scans the bar, ignoring Cas’ question until he spots them, standing a couple tables over. There’s three of them, maybe mid 30’s, already worse for wear, each more drunk than the last. Cas looks over Dean’s shoulder until he spots them. The bikers from before. The way Dean had stilled, eyes glazing dark; Cas immediately knew something was off. 

“Dean, don’t—” but Dean is gone, having walked off in their direction. Cas could only watch now. He knew better than to chase after him, to try and stop him. He stays out of the fray, setting the pool stick down. 

The din of their hyena laughs fall flat as Dean steps up to them, putting his hands in his pockets, nodding his chin at them. Each turns to face him, ruddy faced, slightly sweating, their greasy hair slicked back. Dean thinks they’re too young to be real bikers. Probably couldn’t tell a muffler from a spring fork. They’re just shadows of forgotten fathers, still playing with their toys in the street. Children having grown old and big and drunk. 

“Hi boys,” Dean says. There’s no hint of affection. 

One of them grunts, standing up straight now. He sets his beer down. One crosses his arms. The short one steps closer, sizing Dean up. 

“The fuck you want” he slurs. His lips are wet and slack, spewing beer foam and spit. Dean clenches his fist in his pocket. 

“Oh, just thought I’d say hi, make friends,” Dean says, mocking sincerity with a dazzling grin. “My partner and I need a team to play against.” He flicks his thumb at Cas. One of them scoffs, the other puffs. He doesn’t quite know where “partner” came from but he doesn’t stop to think. He only digs in his heels, doubling down. “You know, it’s hard playing pool alone. Holding those _long, hard_ sticks all by ourselves.” One of them glances at the other. The shortest turns red, crossing his arms. Dean just goes on. “No one to sink any balls with, fill all those holes” he says, dragging it out, laying it on thick. 

“I ain’t playing no pool,” the larger one says, “and I ain’t playing with no fucking faggots.” He’s stepped up now to stand next to the shorter one. He’s got a few inches on Dean but Dean doesn’t waver, only furthers his shit-eating grin. He’s fought off a hell of a lot worse than three bikers. And won, too. 

“Ah, that’s a shame, see I _love_ playing with—” he ducks the swing he anticipated from the shorter one. Dean’s fist is already driving up and through before he’s stood back up. It connects with the guy’s jaw with an audible crack and the guy staggers back. His weight carries him back as tumbles over his stool. The taller one lunges but Dean sidesteps under and around him, hooking his foot under the guy’s boot and shoving him forward. He trips and goes down hard and fast, head slamming on a table’s rim. He’s knocked out before he hits the ground. The third guy freezes. Don’t be stupid, now, Dean thinks. He backs off, hands up, knocking into the table behind him. Dean stands for a moment, breathing. The bar’s gone dead quiet. He can feel 30 stares on him but he doesn’t care, just turns and walks off. He tips over someone’s old beer, letting it slowly pour off the table’s edge and onto the taller one’s face as he slowly comes to. 

Knowing he’s about to get thrown out, he grabs his jacket, Cas, and they bolt. Cas is wide-eyed but doesn’t waver, simply let’s Dean drag him out of the bar as the manager appears in the corner. They’re in the Impala and skidding out of the parking lot before he can even get their plates. 

  
In the car Dean’s adrenaline is still blazing through his veins. He’s wringing his hands on the steering wheel and gritting his teeth. His breaths are coming out deep and low. 

“Dean,” Cas says. Dean doesn’t respond. He knows he overreacted; he knows he should’ve just let it go. He didn’t have to edge them on, get them to swing so that he ‘d have an excuse to swing back. On the surface, he doesn’t have a real excuse for why he did it. He hadn’t thought, just acted. Just acted on the anger, that red-hot rage they’d lit so easily into a burning flame. With just a single word. He’d always hated that fucking word, hated it when Dad used to say it, hated hearing it in the hallways of whatever high school, hated, hated, hated it. He could bulllshit something to Cas that they were looking for trouble anyways, but Cas would see right through it. He probably already could. He knows Cas knows he edged them on. He rolls down the window. 

“Dean,” Cas says again. 

“Look, Cas, if you’re gonna preach to me, save it,” Dean says, the words ringing out harsh—harsher than he’d intended. 

“I wasn’t going to.” Cas says, sighing. “....They were dicks. They had it coming.” 

Dean’s head snaps over. His jaw is hanging. “What?” 

“They had it coming,” Cas says again, nonchalantly. 

“Oh,” Dean says, closing his jaw. He keeps turning his head to stare at Cas, as if it's not actually Cas but only some mirage, some döppelganger he picked up in the bar. 

Cas is looking over too now, faintly smiling. He knows Dean expected a telling-off—he probably deserves it anyways—but Cas can’t summon the energy. Or the will to care. In fact, he doesn’t tell Dean off because he doesn’t really want to.

“I was only going to ask if you were okay,” Cas says. He notices the swelling rising in Dean’s hand. He reaches over, brushing his fingertips from the knuckle down to the wrist. Dean’s skin is hot, nearly vibrating. It stills under Cas’ fingers, wisps of grace lick licking across Dean’s skin. They dance light blue across the back of Dean’s hand, somehow warming and cooling in the same breath. Dean says oh and then thank you, flexing his hand. 

“They’re lucky it was you,” Cas says. “I probably would’ve just smited them.” Dean chokes on nothing, then bursts out laughing. He’s doubling over again, nearly driving them into oncoming traffic. He straightens the car, laughing still, running his hand down his face. He glances over at Cas again. Cas is trying to hide a grin by looking out the window. 

“Hey, I thought your New Year’s resolution was to be more compassionate,” Dean teases. 

Cas shrugs. “If I understand this correctly, resolutions begin on New Year’s Day. Which is tomorrow. I’ve still got”—he checks the car radio—”two hours.”

“Huh...” Dean says. “So, two hours to be bad, huh?” he adds, grinning. Cas head turns so he can shoot Dean a _really?_ look and Dean’s cheeks go hot. Yea, what was that supposed to mean, Dean thinks. Tonight his mouth and hands have spoken before him, moved on their own, acted independently. He doesn’t know what’s happened, why his filter up and left, why he can’t keep his hands to himself. It’s almost terrifying him but he can’t stop. He felt it in the bar. It’s simply adrenaline, pure and raw and coursing. It’s fighting a werewolf with a broken stake in a dark den. It’s being a teenager all over again, riding his motorbike too fast, corn fields blurring into streaks of tan beside him. It’s a space where actions precede thought, where he cannot second guess but only react, move forward, keep pushing. He knows it’s about Cas—it’s always about Cas—but tonight it’s different. So often Dean has to hold himself back, has to think and think and overthink before he speaks. If he speaks at all. He has to restrain his hands from reaching out, has to keep a pained distance, has to think three steps ahead. Tonight, he isn’t. He isn’t thinking. He isn’t wondering what Cas is thinking. He’s only acting, reacting, leaning into the adrenaline of flirting with Cas, teasing the line, shifting into third gear.

He knows the inevitable drop-off will come, when he’s taken it too far, when he freaks Cas out. He thought it might have been just now, but Cas had just laughed. In fact, he’d laughed hard all night. Smiled more. Stood closer. Dean could’ve swore he might have leaned into his touch when he’d wrapped around him at the pool table. He thought he heard Cas’ breath hitch at first. But then he relaxed so slightly, became pliant in Dean’s hand, let himself be touched and guided, and brought his arm to rest against the length of Dean’s. Dean looks over at Cas now but he’s looking out the window, chin resting on his fist, the faintest smile hooked in his lips. 

  
Cas is staring at the glimmering stars. The feeling he had earlier is returning, that particular warmth, settling in deep somewhere within his ribcage. Of course, Dean didn’t have to fight those guys. He shouldn’t have walked over to them in the first place. But he did. He did because they were teasing Cas. Because he hated it. Because they were teasing _them_. Because they’d seen Dean and Cas together and assumed. And Dean had reacted, fought back, risked getting his ass beat for an assumption. For what three washed up, drunk bikers thought in a dive bar ten states away from their home. 

Dean was fighting for him. In both senses. He fought those guys for Cas’ sake, so Cas wouldn't have to (not that he ever would have) and for space in a world where Cas and him could exist. The two of them. Without remarks, snides, jeers. Bit by bit, Dean was carving out a chunk of existence for them, together. In the bunker’s backyard, with the greenhouse. In the bunker too, when he set up a spare room for Cas just down the hall from his. He had helped Cas furnish it too, took him to IKEA, built the bed for Cas while Cas helped. Gave him a lamp he’d “found in a closet” but that was really his own. He did it tonight too, in the bar, taking on three guys for nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. He was fighting tooth and nail against any and every indication that Cas couldn’t stay right by his side, couldn’t exist in his orbit, that they couldn’t continue to brush hands and trade looks and just be. 

For Cas, this was Dean’s language. The words he couldn’t say aloud. The words he couldn’t utter, couldn’t will himself to say. But he did say them. He said them every day. He said them over and over, with his hands, with his actions, with his movements. He was saying them again, right now, as he pulled into the motel. As he tapped Cas’ on the shoulder, led him inside, and filled a glass of water for him. 

They’re both exhausted and they know it, shuffling quietly through the room with heavy feet. Dean is taking off his boots on the edge of the bed, rubbing the bottom of his feet. 

Cas rifles through his toiletry bag, finding his toothbrush. He steps into the bathroom and in a moment Dean joins him, toothbrush in hand. The bathroom is tiny, barely bigger than a large closet. Dean could easily wait, Cas thinks, but he isn’t. Instead he’s jostling around the sink, trying to wet his brush and bumping shoulders with Cas. Cas finishes brushing his teeth. He doesn’t actually need to, being an angel. But Dean had never stopped hanging Cas his toothpaste when he was human and Cas just never stopped taking it. So, every night. Cas brushed his teeth.

Dean’s standing at the sink, boxing Cas in so he just waits. He leans against the back wall, crossing his arms. They’re touching from their feet to just below the hip, yet neither of them moves. Since Cas brushed first, Dean motions to Cas for the toothpaste silently, his brush is in his mouth. Cas goes to hand it to him but when Dean reaches out, Cas pulls it back at the last second. Dean reaches for it but Cas moves it at again, eyebrow cocked up in challenge. Dean rolls his eyes but lunges again and now Cas has lifted it to the ceiling, dangling it by it’s edge. Dean leans a hand on the sink and presses up against Cas to reach upwards. His body pushes flush against Cas’ as he struggles to grab it out of Cas’ hand. Cas wraps his fingers around the tube and stops dangling it, lowering his chin down from where he’s been looking at it to stare Dean squarely in the face. Dean stops his little jumps now, seeing Cas isn’t giving it up anytime soon, and looks down. Their faces are barely an inch apart. Cas’ breath licks across Dean’s lips. Dean’s eyes flicker down to Cas’ mouth. Cas licks his lips and Dean’s pupils flash wide, the toothbrush going slack in his mouth. Cas reaches up, slowly pulling it out of Dean’s mouth. Cas kisses Dean. 

Dean’s lips are soft, but they go still under Cas’. Cas pulls back. Fear flashes across his face, his toying grin having fallen flat. He goes to blurt out an apology but Dean silences him, slamming his lips back into Cas’—greedy and needy and wet. The tube drops out of Cas’ hand and ricochets off of Dean’s shoulder but neither of them notice. Dean’s arm has already wrapped around Cas’ waist, pulling him completely flush against his own body. Cas feels himself go completely lax, feels himself fall into Dean, let’s Dean completely surround him with his arms. His hand comes to wrap around the back of Dean’s neck and grip there and Dean moans into Cas, breathless and wanting. It sets something off in Cas immediately and he pushes into Dean. They slam back against the bathroom wall. The sink is digging into his lower back but it’s a far off echo against the feel of Dean’s body. Dean’s tongue flicks across Cas’ lower lip and Cas opens instantly, letting Dean in. 

Dean is pushing Cas out of the bathroom now and they’re stumbling backwards, landing on the bed in a soft _oof_. Dean slots his hands under Cas’ knees, hoisting Cas higher up on the bed. Cas scrambles back towards the headboard and Dean climbs over him, slotting himself between Cas’ legs. Cas pushes up, just slightly, but it’s all the invitation Dean needs to grind down into him. Cas moans and Dean takes his chin in his hand, tilting his head sideways to kiss hard down his neck. Cas squirms under Dean, bucks up against Dean’s hips, desperate for pressure. Dean just continues down his neck, breath hot and warm and kissing hard as he pulls Cas’ collar down lower, exposing his collarbone. 

Cas’ hands are hiking up under Dean’s shirt, not lifting it off yet but simply scratching long trails across Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean rolls Cas over and now Cas is on top, straddling Dean. He maneuvers back and lifts Dean’s legs, letting them wrap around his waist. Dean tenses at first, surprised. The shock is replaced by a new heat tumbling down towards his dick. He grabs a fist full of Cas’ shirt, yanks him down towards him, tightens his legs around Cas’ waist. Cas starts rolling his hips into Dean’s ass and Dean moans into Cas’ mouth, unapologetic and loud. 

  
When it’s all said and done, when the haze of greed and lust and need clears, when the room falls silent except for their even breaths, Dean closes his eyes. He waited for the shoe to drop, for the air to be sucked out of the room, for Cas to pull off and turn in shame or regret or embarrassment or whatever. But Cas doesn’t move. Neither does Dean. They only lie there, Cas’ fingers trailing slow circles over Dean’s chest. Dean brings his hand to scratch through Cas’ hair and Cas sighs so slightly. The fear Dean expected, the nuclear fall-out, the fighting, the _anything_ , never comes. The adrenaline that had coursed through Dean all night, that caused his skin to sizzle under Cas’ touch, to hum, had receded. It left him exhausted in its wake, the heat of the day sinking deep into his bones. But so did Cas’ warmth, radiating into his chest as Cas’ breath slowed, eyes closing. 

What surprised Dean most was not the softness of Cas lips. It wasn’t the sound of Cas’ sighing in his ear or the feeling of him bucking into Dean’s hand. Or the way his pupils flashed wide, how low his voice was in every moan, how needy and handsy and eager Cas was. Or how eager Dean was in turn. Or how encouraging Cas was of Dean, how there was never an awkward moment, only understanding and _yes_ and _keep going, please, Cas, Cas._

No, Dean was caught off guard by just how...easy it was. When they’d both gotten off their briefs and were finally naked, neither squirmed or turned away. They’d both just taken a moment, sat back, breathing each other in and just looking. It was the feeling of falling apart and together at the same time. Gravitating to one another in the soft light of the motel lamp, just an extension of the clothed dance they’d been playing for years. 

“What are you thinking?” Cas says, quietly, breaking the din of the motel’s A/C. 

Dean doesn’t reply for a moment, just keeps rooting his hands through Cas’ hair. 

“Why didn’t we do that sooner,” Dean says through a small chuckle.

Cas laughs too and raises his chin to look up at Dean. “Yea, me too.”

Dean asks before he can stop himself. He knew it was a risk—this was so new—but so far, the world was still standing. Nothing had fallen apart. Cas was still right there, still scratching his chest, still faintly smiling. 

“How long?” Dean says, so quietly Cas almost misses it. Cas looks back at him now, a seriousness settling in his gaze. He pushes himself up on Dean’s chest a little. 

“A very long time,” Cas says, a smile creeping back over his lips. “...you?” He knew the answer but he wanted Dean to say it, to vocalize it. 

“Yea, me too,” Dean says, kinda clearing his throat. He looks away from Cas now—tonight was reaching the limits of the human experience as he knew it—but Cas pulled his chin back to him and stared deeper into him. Dean knew he couldn’t hide now. He never could in the first place. 

Cas kisses him again, slow and thoughtful. Dean cups his face and wraps his arm around Cas’ waist, pulling him in tighter. They kiss for a moment longer and Cas pulls back, leaning his forehead against Dean’s. Dean reaches up and kisses it and Cas sinks back down on Dean’s chest. 

“You are a very confusing man, Dean Winchester,” Cas says. 

“So I’ve heard,” Dean replies, grinning against the roll of Cas’ eyes that he can’t see but can seriously feel anyways. Cas just laughs. Dean reaches down and pulls the covers over them, settles in, and turns off the lamp. 

“Happy New Year,” Dean says, pulling Cas in. 

“Indeed,” Cas replies. 


End file.
